Fealty With Love
by Altariel
Summary: The night before the coronation, a conversation between the man who will be king, and the man who will be steward.
1. Fealty With Love

**Fealty With Love**

 _The Pelennor, the last day of April, 3019 T.A._

On the night before his coronation, in his pavilion upon the Pelennor, the man who would soon be King met the man who was to be his Steward. They had met only three times thus far, he and Faramir – once that first strange meeting in the dark valley and the sickroom; once in the Houses of Healing, when the Lord of Gondor had sworn his fealty to his King; and now this – a meeting both formal and familiar, a quiet, shrewd testing of the other's wit and wisdom. If Aragorn judged rightly, he believed the Steward content with all he found.

And yet plainly the other still had something he wanted to say, but had not yet found the means. Which of the many men he had been would he trust? Strider was too forthright, surely; Estel too private; Elessar too remote. No, he thought – he must only ever be Aragorn here.

The Steward rose from his chair, and stretched. There was a change about him, Aragorn thought; not simply that his body was returned to health, but that his spirit too was mended. What healing had come in these last weeks? It was as if some deep well of joy had been found within that might suddenly spring forth.

Faramir prowled the little space, coming to a halt by the flap of the tent. He twitched it open to look out, and then let it fall back into place. "I have asked the Lady Éowyn for her hand," he said, "and she has agreed."

 _Yes_ , he thought; _yes, that would explain the difference…_ _Good… Very good…_

"Sire?"

"I am glad to hear this," he said, warmly. "Very glad."

Faramir nodded, slowly; he had more to say. Aragorn waited. It was for the other man to speak first. He knew – knew well, and regretted too – that he had made mistakes here. _No errand in the South_ , he had said. He had been badly wrong.

"I know why she rode south," said the Steward, as if catching the thought. "I know too why, as we stood together on the walls of the Houses of Healing, her eyes often strayed eastwards." He contemplated his King. "As a great captain may seem to a young soldier, I said to her of you." He shrugged. "That is how it stands."

Cautiously, he considered this. They would be closest to him and his wife-to-be, over the coming years – years in which two kingdoms were to be restored. They would need them on their side. And yet still he worried. "You have known each other… How long? Six weeks?"

"Five."

Five weeks... _To be young again_ , he thought… "Long enough to know each other?"

The Steward turned to look out into the night. He seemed to be waiting for someone, or something. "To watch one's lord and father sink ever further into despair? To be unable to stop the rot? To offer whatever aid lay within one's power, knowing it would be no use? And, more, to bend oneself, daily, year after year, to a duty so counter to one's self that in the end one longs only for extinction? Yes, sire – I believe we know each other very well."

And thus gently he was rebuked. Halbarad himself could not have done it so efficiently, although he would perhaps have been more blunt. _I will like having this man at my side_ , he thought. He said: "You will live in Ithilien, of course?"

Suddenly, that fountain of happiness overflowed. The young man smiled – vividly, joyfully – as if some vision of the future had been summoned to his mind. "Yes," he said. "Ithilien will be our home."

Aragorn came to stand next to him. He felt, as he would for some time when he was near this man, that mingled sense of regret and relief – regret for the ones he had been too late to save; relief that he had come in time for this one. He placed his hand upon his shoulder – a gesture both formal and fatherly, one not of possession, but protection. "Need I say you have my blessing?"

"That is good to hear." Faramir looked at him, gravely. "We offer you all we are, sire, Éowyn and I. Use us kindly."

From beyond the tent came voices. _"In here?"_ "

"Ah!" said Faramir softly. "Here she comes. And with her brother…"

"You have not met him?"

"Not yet."

Again that hand upon the shoulder – the lightest, most confident of touches. "All will be well."

* * *

 _Altariel, 31_ _st_ _August 2018_


	2. Meet the Family

**Meet the Family**

 _For CarawynO_

* * *

Faramir was standing ramrod straight when his betrothed entered. They gave each other tight, faint smiles. And then her brother came in. He nodded to the King, and then eyed the other man. Fiercely.

"So you're the Steward?"

Faramir placed his fist upon his heart and gave an impeccable bow. "I am the Steward of Gondor, yes."

"Well," said Éomer. He wore an odd expression, somewhere between annoyance and bewilderment. Faramir looked back blandly, perfectly unreadable. Éowyn too was very closed. They were standing scrupulously apart.

Aragorn folded his arms and watched the scene with considerable interest. He was not entirely sure how this would resolve. There were of course numerous sensitivities at work, not least the political implications. Also, the hobbits were demanding a full report.

Suddenly, there was a most unladylike snort of laughter. "Oh Éomer," said his sister, her hand to her mouth. "Your _face_! You don't know whether to embrace us or horsewhip us!"

Faramir relaxed, visibly. "If those are the options, I have a clear preference," he said. "Assuming my views on the subject are welcome."

Éowyn laughed out loud. Faramir, hearing this, smiled in turn, a man in receipt of a much-desired honour. No doubting the strength of the affection between them, Aragorn thought. But what did the King of the Mark make of it all?

Éomer was glaring at his sister. Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, Éowyn," he muttered, "To hear you laugh again… Be happy now, won't you?" He turned to Faramir. "Please – make her _happy_."

"Oh, my brother…" Éowyn said, softly. No tears, Aragorn thought; no, not from Steelsheen's grand-daughter, but, yes, here too there had been a great healing. Faramir, reaching for his lady's hand, held it tenderly between his own. "That is certainly my intention."

Gently, Aragorn manoeuvred the three of them into seats. Wine was brought. He listened as the young couple explained the circumstances of their meeting. Six weeks, he thought, since they had both lain at the threshold of death. Six weeks since they had each been near consumed by grief and despair. Now they sat hand-in-hand, overflowing with happiness. It would take a hard heart to begrudge them this, and Éomer's heart was vast and loving.

"Éowyn complained to me about the quality of her room."

It was her brother's turn to snort.

"And Faramir said something about flowers."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that… I was very tired at the time and not making much sense—"

"I feel," said Éomer, entering into the spirit of things, "that I should conduct at least a short interview, my lord. About your prospects, perhaps? She _is_ the sister of a king."

"Please, let me allay any fears you might have. I have a house in the city, independent means, I come from a… largely respectable family…"

"I think," said Éomer, "that our families have had some dealings in the past. There was an oath, as I recall?"

"I think you may be right. What else? My main estate has been in ruins for the best part of a century, but with some work we might not have to sleep outside—"

"I'll cope," said Éowyn.

"I am sure of that," said Éomer. "One more question. Do you love her?"

The man and woman stared at each other. They were, thought Aragorn, amongst the two most reserved and controlled people of his acquaintance, yet Éowyn's face was flushed bright red, and Faramir's hands were trembling with emotion. "Do I—? Oh _yes_ … Yes!"

"Good," said Éomer. "Then you'll serve." He glanced at Aragorn, gave a slight nod, which the King returned. There would be more questions no doubt, in private, about his Steward; the Prince of Dol Amroth and his sons could surely be marshalled to speak about their kinsman's many virtues. But for now… _Yes_ , thought the King. _All will be well_. Most importantly, the hobbits would be satisfied.

* * *

 _Altariel, 2_ _nd_ _and 28_ _th_ _September 2018_


	3. Character Witnesses

**Character Witnesses**

 _The Pelennor, the last day of April, 3019 T.A._

A simple declaration of love. That was all it took in the end. Éomer was not a complicated man. After that, the conversation continued happily for a while, until the couple took their leave.

"Until tomorrow," Faramir said, as they rose from the seats. He tucked Éowyn's arm within his own.

"Your last night as ruler of the realm," Éomer noted.

"Indeed," said the outgoing Lord of Gondor, "and still several laws to repeal before the morrow." He looked happy. "And then I am free!"

"I'm sure I'll think of something for you to do," said Aragorn.

"Not too much," said Éowyn, dryly.

Aragorn bowed. "Lady," he said.

They left together. Éomer watched them go, and then took his seat again. "What?" he said, seeing Aragorn's eye fall on him. "When can I speak to Dol Amroth?"

"He's on his way, I think," said Aragorn. "But does more need to be said?"

"No," said Éomer, leaning back with a smile. "He loves her. She loves him. What more could I ask?"

Nonetheless, Imrahil and his sons arrived so promptly that Aragorn almost suspected them of having been listening outside. Surely nothing so undignified could occur. Still, the four of them, princes all, proceeded to fall over themselves to inform the King of the Mark of the courage, integrity, decency, mercy, kindness, wit (and had they mentioned courage?) of their kinsman. Faramir must never hear a word of this, thought Aragorn. He would be mortified.

"There would be no City now had Faramir not held the line—"

"Four languages, fluently, and I suspect him of at least another two—"

"Tactician, strategist, and proving himself to be something of a statesman too, no surprise there—"

"Every single Ranger under his command known personally to him—"

"Loyal to Denethor beyond duty. Never a word in public against him, and yet I know that behind closed doors he fought some decisions at considerable cost to himself—"

"Finest bowman in Gondor—"

"One of the finest swordsmen too—"

"Can't count the number of families he has helped over the years; widows, orphans—"

Éomer listened solemnly. "Widows and orphans," he said, nodding. "No higher praise. Tell me more about his father."

The four men looked at each other in agony. Aragorn covered his smile with his hand. Éomer opened his mouth to put them out of their misery, but was forestalled as the tent flap opened and a furious hobbit marched in. Sam Gamgee, all three feet of him, with Merry and Pippin close behind.

"I won't have this!" he said, standing in front of the King of the Mark with his hands upon his hips. "I won't have this at all!"

Éomer held up his hands in appeasement. "Master Gamgee—"

But Sam was in full flight. "Now see here! I've walked a long way these last few months, and I can say that Captain Faramir was the finest man I met on that journey – begging your pardon, Mister Strider, sir – and what's more whatever that father of his was like – and there's more to that story than meets the eye, if what Pippin has to say is true – none of that is Captain Faramir's fault and none of that makes a jot of difference when it comes to him and his White Lady. Why, anyone with their eyes half open can see how much he loves her, and she loves him, and quite right too!"

There was a pause. Merry, whose eyes were twinkling, said, "He really is very nice. Éowyn is so much happier."

Pippin opened his mouth to chip in. Aragorn forestalled him, before further damage could be done. "Master Samwise," he said, "you have now scolded three of the four most powerful lords of the West. The Prince of Dol Amroth awaits your attention, should you wish to complete the set."

Sam blushed beetroot. A chuckle came from beyond the tent flap, and Frodo entered. Sam looked at him in desperation.

"Sam," said Frodo, "have you been interrupting councils again?"

"Not only Sam," said Merry, scrupulously. "Still, no harm done." His eyes crinkled. "I think."

"Don't I get to say my piece?" said Pippin.

"No," said Aragorn. He waved his hand. "You may all go now, please."

Obediently, they trooped out: four princes; four hobbits. Éomer was last to leave. "Widows and orphans," he said. "That will come in useful." And he laughed as he went off into the fair night.

 _Altariel, 16_ _th_ _December 2019_


	4. Well Met by Moonlight

**Well Met by Moonlight**

 _Minas Tirith, the night before the Coronation_ , _April 3019 TA_

Faramir, blissfully unaware of the encomiums being heaped on him by well-meaning friends and family, was, with great contentment, leading his lady back across the Pelennor to the City. The waxing moon, hanging high overhead, shone down on them. Hand-in-hand they wove their way through tents and pavilions, lamps and laughter, music and merriment. This night, Éowyn, thought; it was like dreaming. How was it possible to be here, now, with this man? How was it possible to be this happy?

"I think," he said, as they left the camp behind and drew closer to the city walls, "that your brother liked me."

The walls were hung with lanterns and, from behind, rising up throughout the city, they heard the beat of rhythmic drums, the swirl of flutes and viols, clapping hands, voices raised in song.

"I think," she said, "that my brother had no choice in the matter."

"Ah, so if he had forbidden the match—?"

"I ran away once," she said. "He would be wise not to test me again."

They were coming to the gap in the wall where the gates had been. Crowds of people were flowing in and out, hastening to some dance or celebration or other. He moved closer to her, resting his cheek against hers. She leaned inwards. How was it possible that a man this beautiful walked under the sun? How was it possible that he was hers?

"What did I do," he murmured into her ear, "to earn you?"

"You did everything right," she replied.

They joined the flow of people entering the city. He raised the hood of his cloak; she followed suit. There was a chance, perhaps, that they might slip through unnoticed…

But no – at the barrier, two of the guards recognised him, and jumped to give their salute: fists held to their hearts; head bowed. A murmur rustled all around. _The Steward… The Lord Faramir…_ She felt his grip tighten on her hand. _The Steward…_ And then: _The White Lady…_ The flow of people stopped; the crowd pulled back, leaving them isolated. Men bowed; women dropped into curtsies. He lowered his hood, and bowed his head gravely.

"Quick," he murmured, as they passed through the gateway. "While we have the chance."

Holding her arm, he guided her across the courtyard towards a narrow side street. It was a little darker here; quieter. She felt him become easier once again. "You joke a lot," she said, "about your imminent retirement. How serious are you?"

"Serious?" He led her along a covered passage and up some narrow stone steps along the side of an old house. They came out onto a walkway that ran around the east-facing wall. She looked out back across the fields to the encampment: the fires; the lamps; the dark clustered shadows of the tents.

"I mean, given the choice," she said. "What would you do, given the choice?"

He answered promptly. "Serve Gondor and marry you."

"Ah," she said. "I see my place in the scheme of things."

"Gondor _was_ here first," he said.

"But in a few hours, becomes someone else's business."

"Oh, I'll always keep an eye on it. Habit, if nothing else. There were Stewards before there were Ruling Stewards. Also, we should not forget that I do have a title in my own right, and thus a place on the council. I am the Lord of Emyn Arnen," he said, grandly. "A fine name for a huge swathe of wilderness and a heap of stones. I'll take you there next week. As soon as I've retired."

They saw people ahead, coming towards them, laughing and singing. He grasped her hand and they took flight down a narrow lane, tripping over cobblestones in their haste, hurrying up and up. They stopped to catch their breath in a quiet court, sitting on a low wall beside a little fountain. The houses around were quiet and shuttered. The water bubbled up and splashed down into a shallow stone bowl. The moon was reflected in the water. She ran her hand through it and the light rippled.

"And what will we do there?" she said. "In the middle of this wilderness?"

"Build a hut. Keep chickens. Perhaps in time a goat."

She burst out laughing. The shutters of a nearby window opened and someone called out, _Quiet!_ They looked at each other, and laughed, and moved on. Soon they reached the upper levels: the grand town houses of the old families, the high walls of the Houses of Healing. Even here there were signs of merrymaking; doors and windows thrown open; lanterns lit and garlands hanging.

"So a steading in Ithilien does not appeal?" he said.

"It might appeal more than court life."

They walked up the long passage that led up to the Citadel. The Tower guards saluted him as they went past. The Lord of Gondor… for a few more hours yet.

"We could rent out the town house," he said. "It's in a very desirable location." He pointed ahead to his home. "We could easily live on that income alone. It would not be long before we could acquire the goat. Are you worried, love, about what life at court might entail?"

He did this sometimes. Wandered way down some absurd digression or other; snapped back to his main point in a split second. It would be disconcerting to be on the receiving end, if one was also subject to his displeasure. He had tried a variation on this tactic several times with her, in the Houses of Healing. Her evident ability to parry him had plainly only added to her charm.

"Worried? No."

They walked slowly through the Court of the Fountain. Here everything was quiet. Here, everything was waiting for the morrow. She thought, as she walked, about the court of Minas Tirith. She had observed it closely over the past few weeks, standing at his side. These cool and calculating people held no fear for her; in fact, they seemed like kin. Steelsheen's part in shaping her had been strong. She believed she would relish the life. Besides, he would be there. "They should surely be more worried about us."

He stopped. He turned to face her, and bent, slightly, to rest his brow against hers. "Have I said," he said (his voice was shaking a very little), "how much I love you? How… _defended_ I feel with you beside me? It's been a lonely road over the years, Éowyn…"

She slipped her arms around him. They held each other close. A lonely road indeed. "Here I am. Don't let go."

He kissed her hair. "Never."

They looked out east and, as they watched, a great blaze of fireworks rose up above the fields of the Pelennor. Tomorrow, she thought, would be a day of ceremony; of public faces and pronouncements; all that was necessary for a great sea change. But for now, they might be themselves. Overhead, Éowyn saw the fireworks ray out, resolving into a huge white and silver tree. And the last ruling steward and his lady slipped, hand-in-hand, away into the night.

* * *

 _Altariel, 17_ _th_ _December 2019_


End file.
